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prurientpuddlejumper · 3 years

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A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 16

<- Part 15 | Part 17 ->

Summary: A flirtatious moment in the hospital garden turns sour.

Warnings: Brief nsfw themes, injury-recovery angst, post-traumatic stress/flashbacks, graphic past injuries, KISSING, hurt/comfort. Love and fluff.

3,700 words

After being gutted left him with a limp, a cane, and an overbearing sense of weakness, Frederick Chilton began copying Hannibal Lecter. His patterned suits, his clean-shaven face. The mimicry wasn’t deliberate exactly, but he looked to a man who radiated calm dignity and strength, and tried to capture some of it for his own.

It didn’t work. Frederick Chilton was still Frederick Chilton.

But shaving the beard did make him look younger. The razor glided over his smooth cheek as he cut through the facial hair that had grown unruly in the hospital. A new man stared back at him. One not traumatized by Gideon’s knife.

Only a few months later, he was shot in the face, and let the stubble grow back to distract from the scar. To obscure the hollowing where maxillary bone was missing. Like a chameleon, Frederick was always changing—hairstyles, wardrobes, colognes—always imitating someone, drawing the eye away from a flaw, never comfortable with himself. Ever improving. Refining. Hiding.

Every day, the burn ward’s physical therapists had him using one exercise machine or another. A pedaling machine lowered over his bed so he could build muscle while lying on his back before he was able to walk. The next step was a tall, rolling frame that he strapped into like a fighter pilot hanging from a parachute harness, which allowed him to take a few weightless steps. His legs shook. His feet did not know how to align themselves on the ground anymore. He hissed curses when you cheered him on just for shuffling one foot forward along the smooth grey linoleum.

One damned foot.

As if he couldn’t walk before. As if one shaking, machine-assisted step was an accomplishment. He was an overgrown baby in a Jumperoo.

While he could not walk on his own yet, he could get into and out of a wheelchair without screaming bloody murder. This allowed him a new level of freedom, if not autonomy. He still required two nurses to lower him into the chair. Still needed help getting to the bathroom. But he could at least use the bathroom instead of a bedpan and catheter.

Healing came at a cost.

Until now, he had caught flashes of his reflection in polished surfaces. Warped teeth in a metal IV pole. The fuzzy silhouette of a mask in the black of his computer screen.

He stood with his hands on the bathroom sink, staring. The nurse at his left elbow tugged him, told him it was time to sit back down in the chair. He needed support to stand, a babysitter to ensure he didn’t fall, and she was tired of waiting.

The thing staring back at him did not move.

When he took the compression mask off for the one hour per day he was allowed to remove it for cleaning, he somehow expected to find his own face beneath it. Skin. What he saw was a stranger. Gnarled scars made an uneven backdrop for one dead blue eye and a skeletal grimace. His own bones were buried somewhere underneath like bedrock, but the flesh was rearranged and distorted.

If he had met this man a year ago, Dr. Chilton would have felt inward pride at his ability not to sicken at the sight. He would have shaken his hand with a smug, professional detachment that said, “I am accustomed to horrific things in my line of work—abnormal psychiatry. This does not shock me as it would a layperson.”

He was a creature to be pitied.

Then a familiar reflection appeared out of the blind spot of his left side. Your image wrapped its hand behind the broken stranger, and he felt it land on his lower back. Warm. Comforting as your face, which was knit with worry. You told the nurse you could handle it from here, and she retreated out to his room.

When she was gone, Frederick began to laugh, dark and cruel, eyes never leaving the matching set staring cruelly back.

“What is it?” you asked, tightening your grip on his arm as he began to tremble.

“Do you think I look younger without a beard?”

The laugh cracked in his throat. His shoulders heaved as he finally looked away. It was too embarrassing to watch a grown man cry.

***

The heat of July was not easy on a body that could no longer sweat and was covered head to toe in a compression suit, but Frederick Chilton was thrilled to be outside. As the automatic sliding doors opened, he breathed in deeply through the nose and exhaled the spinning summer fragrances with a blissful sigh.

You resisted the urge to tease him. Of the pair, you were the more outdoorsy by far, and the last time you dragged him camping, he’d managed to complain the entire two days. He was not, generally, one to appreciate sunshine and birdsong. But this was different.

It was his first time away from the lifeless hospital air—the same smells day after day—in four months.

Now a breeze hit his face—a breeze! He had forgotten what that felt like—and brought with it the smell of cut grass and flowers, and exhaust fumes from the nearby roadways. The scent of gasoline urged his stomach to wring itself empty, but it was faint and easy enough to shake off as sparrows chirped and flitted about the hospital’s “meditation garden.”

Gently curving paths snaked through the landscaping of lush greenery and small trees. Few flowers were planted, out of respect for patients with allergies, but a fountain at the center babbled soothingly. The walkways were wide and smoothly paved, so the grey wheels of the hospital-issue wheelchair rolled over them easily, performing their function despite being over-worked and worn down, not unlike the staff. The black rubber handle grips had a dull patina from hundreds of hands, yours being the latest to circle around them as you pushed.

It was nice to have a private courtyard to enjoy the fresh air without the eyes of the general public watching.

Frederick was able to wear clothes from home now, but they had to be loose-fitting and short-sleeved to not interfere with his treatment. In a navy polo shirt and athletic shorts, he felt horrifically under-dressed, and did not want to be seen that way. The fashion crime was almost as bad as the face he could not bear looking at.

An elderly patient and what appeared to be her adult daughter sat on one of the benches between two daylily patches, blooming garishly cheerful red and gold. The daughter looked up, and Chilton looked away.

“You are certain you checked the bedroom closet? Left-hand side, second drawer to the bottom?” he asked again, agitation rising.

He was looking for the more fashionable Chino shorts he rarely wore, preferring to overheat in long pants than expose his pale, door-knob knees to imagined ridicule. You told him the housekeeper must have misplaced them.

He clenched his fist as tightly as the pink, shiny-scarred claw could manage and went on a gruff, impotent rant about the help growing careless without him to keep them in check. (If anything, the “help” were desperate to keep you in check without him there to manage your habit of leaving everything out—your clothes on a chair, the cereal box on the counter.)

“I know, I know. Awful,” you nodded along to the music of his words, if not the lyrics. You wished he would change the subject, but he pressed on with his investigation of the Case of the Missing Shorts.

“Mrs. Pérez brought a load of laundry down from the bedroom last Wednesday,” he noted. Frederick had taken to watching the security feeds remotely from his laptop. “Has she been using the cheap dry cleaner on Cherry Street instead of the good one so she can skim the difference? I have explicitly instructed the staff not to use them—they have lost or ruined several articles over the years. Inform Mrs. Pérez that I will not stand for lazy—what?”

Your tense smile began emanating a tenser whine.

It was rather suspicious.

Frederick watched you for a moment, puzzled, and then resumed, “The new security guard shares my pant size. Perhaps—”

“I DID IT. I brought them to Good Will.”

“You what?!”

Clicking the wheelchair brake, you doubled over the back of it, laughing at your childish ruse and how seriously Frederick had taken it. God, the man could never let anything go! “Over a year ago! You never wore them!”

“Come here.” His clipped tone did not invite argument.

You walked around to the front of his chair, the repentant pout on your face strongly undermined by rounded cheeks that were barely holding back a chuckle.

He growled with affectionate anger—the kind where he wanted to grab behind your knees and pull you into his lap, telling you with a low purr exactly how much trouble you were in. Except at the moment, your weight crashing onto his skinny, bony lap would have bruised a femur and torn five stitches. And if he was not confident enough for a kiss, he was in no condition to promise punishments of that nature.

So he gave your rump a sharp smack and tried to make his mouth smirk in that playfully disdainful way that said, “I love you, but I am going to kill you. You know that, right?” Sometimes wanting to kill someone can be such a personal, intimate love language.

“Doctor Chilton!” you gasped, feigning shock. “Such a naughty patient. I have told you time and again, this is simply unprofessional.”

The old woman and daughter had moved on, leaving you alone in the garden.

He let out a soft huff of amusement, catching on to the new game you were playing. Back when he was the administrator of the BSHCI, you would often saunter into his office playing the oversexed patient to his sleazy therapist. Now the roles were reversed.

“You protest,” he said in a low, lecherous tone, “and yet you continue to lavish extra attention on me. Do not think I have not noticed.”

“I don’t know what you could mean,” you deflected coyly. “Please keep your hands to yourself, sir.”

He grabbed your hand and spun you to face him, skeletal fingers interlocking with yours. Even through the compression glove, you could feel how skinny they had become, knobby knuckles protruding.

“Doctor,” he corrected.

You swallowed. “Doctor.”

“Why deny it? You guard all my treatments for yourself like a prize when other nurses could do it. You crawl into my bed to warm me with your body heat—hardly standard practice. I think you like the attention,” he said, giving your ass another lurid slap.

“D-Doctor! I’m not supposed to—we’re not supposed to…”

“If you worked at my hospital, I would fire you for such fraternization. Yet you call me unprofessional.” His hand still rested on your ass.

“You would fire me, doctor? Why fire me when there is so much I could offer?”

“And what is it you would offer me?” he asked, voice thick with meaning. His fingers kneaded the fat of your ass gently. It would have been harder, more possessive, if his hands were at full strength.

Not long ago, getting an erection had been painful, though he’d had several corrective surgeries since then, and the grafting had time to heal. Perhaps the sunlight was sparking him back to life. He was in a flirtatious mood—more excited than you’d seen him in a long time, and you were not about to tell him to slow down.

“Anything you want, doctor.” You lowered yourself in front of his chair, kneeling between his legs and looking up at him expectantly.

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

No one else was in the garden, and statues and shrubberies hid it from the road, but it was not entirely private. Anyone could walk in or see from a window of the tall buildings. You were just pretending. You weren’t going to slip his cock out right there and suck it for all the world to see. And yet… it had been so long. The thought of your moist lips closing over his lonely, aching hardness, your head bobbing in his lap…

“You… are fascinated with me, nurse,” he observed, licking his non-lips. His composure was holding, but barely. “You have seen many patients, but never one as badly burned, have you?”

“No.”

“Does it excite you?”

You took a moment before answering. Part of him resented you for still finding him attractive. At his lowest, he even blamed you for wanting these brutal injuries to happen. A bird sang a few metallic notes on a nearby branch before fluttering down to drink from the fountain. You stroked the top of his narrow thighs, careful not to push too far by going near his cock, but he showed no sign of hesitation today. The heat in his eyes as he watched you was not accusing, but hungry.

“Yes,” you panted. “You are striking. I’ve never met anyone so strong, so resilient.”

“Do you dream of kissing me? Your most striking patient?”

“Yes.”

The sun beat down hotter, but it was only your own internal temperature rising. The birds seemed to pause in their songs, and the leaves on the trees ceased to flutter.

You had waited so long—was he really asking?

His gloved hand reached down between his legs, and nailless pink fingertips stroked the side of your face thoughtfully a few times. Then he motioned you to get up off your knees, offering his hand as a symbolic gesture only. You put some of your weight on the padded rubber armrest as you stood.

“It will not be pleasant. For either party, I imagine,” he said, breaking character.

“It will be for me.” Your voice was soft.

“I do not know what to do like this. Mash my teeth against your face?”

You laughed a little. It was probably more nuanced than that, but that sounded basically accurate. “We’ll find out together.”

He looked off into the distance, toward the humming road weaving through the city. A warm breeze brought the smell of sea off the harbor: salty, humid, and stagnant with rotted fish and garbage. “The memory of your lips against mine is already fading,” he said. “That memory is all I have left of them. Whatever this will be, it will not feel the same.”

“I know.” You rested a hand on his shoulder. The dark blue polo was informal for his old life, but the woven cotton texture was rich compared to the thin hospital gowns you were used to him wearing. The last kiss you shared with Frederick was preserved behind a glass display case in your memory palace. A new kiss might break the hermetic seal. You could forget what it felt like to kiss him before. But it seemed worth the price to build new memories—a future just as full of love as the past.

He looked up at you like a broken ceramic being pieced back together with gold. His eyes shone with love, but his shoulders were slumped low.

“You may say I’m a slutty nurse for wanting to kiss my patient, but you’re to blame!” you said, playing the game again. “How could I resist your charm? I bet you seduce every nurse—I’m only your latest conquest!”

A smile tugged the corner of his mouth.

“No, my dear,” he purred, grabbing your arm and pulling you down to him until your face was inches from his. “Only you. I only want you.”

“Can I kiss you?”

He breathed in. He nodded.

You leaned the final inch down, and pressed your lips to his teeth.

The Red Dragon’s teeth sunk through flesh and tore deep. Coppery blood flooded his mouth, the taste so metallic and strong it drowned out almost everything else out—the pain, the unnatural tearing, little pops of veins, ligaments, and muscles stretching to their limits before giving up, his own screams. The truth of his face with all its illusions of grandeur was revealed before him: it was just meat. Nothing but raw, shredded meat.

“NO!” he screamed, and pushed you hard.

It was different than the peevish denials other times you’d tried to kiss. He pushed you away with so much force you staggered backward, and his wheelchair nearly tipped over. It reared on two wheels like a panicked horse and would have fallen except the worn brake gave way, and he shot backward several feet until the vacant bench stopped the chair’s momentum.

“No, no! Get away! No!” he begged no one, shaking and thrashing so violently he risked ripping his healing scars.

His back, legs, and arms were glued to the wheelchair, and he couldn’t escape. No—could have if he were desperate enough, strong enough. But he was terrified of ripping his skin off. The thought made him break out in a cold sweat and made it difficult to think straight. Dear god, he was afraid something happened to his back. Of being disfigured again.

He was afraid to die, but he dreaded even more the thought of surviving yet again to find another piece taken from him.

Not another. Not again.

If he cooperated, he had to be spared this time. He would cooperate. Do everything The Red Dragon said, and fate would be merciful. He had to go home. He had to go home. To see you again. It was not fair that he survived two attempts on his life only to die here. It was not fair! He was going to get married to the love of his life. Things were finally going right. The Dragon’s shadow fell over him. The acrid stench of his breath as he leaned down toward Frederick’s mouth—

“Frederick!”

You ran after him and tried to restrain him before he climbed out of the wheelchair and fell to the pavement, but it only made him struggle harder. Fuck. You weren’t sure if touching him again was a good idea, but you didn’t know what else to do. He was going to hurt himself.

“Shh, I’m here.”

Crouching next to him, you tried to keep him seated, murmuring soft, reassuring words. Eventually, he stopped thrashing to escape, his jerking limbs resigning themselves to passive trembling. His eyes were open, but they didn’t see you. They didn’t see anything but a dark room with a flickering projector.

You laid your head on his lap. “I’m right here. It’s OK. You’re safe, Frederick. You’re safe. Shh, shh...”

It took several minutes, but his breathing began to slow, and he began to calm down. His fingers found your hair and stroked it, mindlessly running over the contour of your scalp. Familiarity. Recognizing you, he grasped at your shirt to draw you closer, clutching you like a teddy bear to his chest. It was an awkward angle, but you shifted so your butt was partially supported by the bench he’d crashed into, and used the chair’s armrest to hold yourself in the bent position. Frankly, even if every muscle in your body cramped up, you weren’t going to leave him as long as he needed to hold onto you.

Finally, he whimpered your name and asked what happened.

“I… kissed you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

He sniffed and wiped his face, which he discovered was soaked with tears, and looked off into the trees. You sat back onto the bench, straightening your crooked spine, but keeping a firm hold on his hand, staying close as he returned to reality. He would be embarrassed. Add this to the growing list of Ways Frederick Chilton is Broken and Useless. But for now, the humiliation was dulled by the fact that he was not in that room again, with the projector flickering. You stayed that way for a while, sitting in the dappled shade of the garden and the warm breeze, the fountain burbling a constant, relaxing, tuneless song.

“The last man to bring his lips to mine bit them off.”

“I’m so sorry, Frederick. I shouldn’t have been so stupid...”

He squeezed your hand. Straightened up in his chair. “I heard the FBI has the video. Have you watched it?”

You shook your head, then quickly added, “No,” aloud, knowing his vision was poor and still focused on the tree branches swaying and morphing in the wind. Jack Crawford had offered, but you didn’t want to see it. You couldn’t bear to.

It had been hard enough hearing him describe how Francis Dolarhyde glued him naked to his grandmother’s wheelchair and made him watch macabre home movies of the families he had slaughtered. His voice was too calm, too distant from the memory as he dictated graphic details for the Journal of Psychology, desperate to tell his story, grab his fame before he died.

You should have known how your mouth coming at his would make him feel. You were so caught up in your romantic imaginings, you forgot how kiss-like that moment of horror must have been, just before the pain.

The nightmare his life had been for months already, and would continue to be. The scar tissue that wouldn’t fully mature for two years. Two years wearing a compression suit to help them heal. Years of follow-up procedures so that he can continue to move. To breathe. To hear. Longer until he could get a new face. His entire life altered forever.

It started with a kiss.

“We don’t have to kiss. I should never have pushed you to,” you apologized, wincing preemptively.

You expected him to be angry. To sarcastically tell you, “Now you decide we don’t have to? Now that it is too late? What fine timing.”

“I am not weak,” he bristled instead, but his agitation only spanned the length of a breath. He squeezed your hand softly, and pulled you halfway into his chair to wrap his arms around your waist and back. “I did not think that would happen either,” he spoke comfortingly into your hair. “Attempting it for the first time in a wheelchair was a mistake. I should have been more aware of that, but I grow tired of not being able to show my affection. You are not the only one impatient for my recovery, darling. I want to try again.”

“Now?” You pulled back, widening your eyes at him.

“No,” he said plainly. “I think not.”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

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#Frederick Chilton x reader #my writing

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agoodgoddamnshot · 4 years

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Maelstrom - Hannibal/Will [Alpha/Omega (G)]

Twitter Prompt: A/O!Verse & Baby!Graham-Lecter

The silence is deafening. Out in the halls, he can pick out muffled conversations and announcements echoed overhead. They pulse against his ears. Hospital ward sounds that fade into the background as he strains to hear Will. The screams cut deeper than any knife ever will. Every lash across his skin dug deeper and deeper with every fumbled step he was dragged away.

He fought. Of course he did. No sane Alpha would ever part with their mate, unless something, or someone, interfered.

The metal and plastic and rubber sitting in his mouth are almost suffocating. The scent of it alone, mixed with the sting of disinfectant in the halls, coats the roof of his mouth and turns his nose. The harness digs into his skin and his teeth gnaw against the bit.

His hands are free; trembling and fidgeting with everything but the harness’ buckle sitting at the back of his head. Some small sliver of logic whispers to him that it’s just for a moment, for the safety of others, and the safety of his mate while they work on him.

And the logic cowers as whatever primal, vocal part of his being snarls and stalks. Whatever that sane part of him can whisper against the shell of his ear, it will always be chased away by the same part of him that sends him into ruts and leaves his reason at the door.

So he paces, and listens. All the while his jaw flexes against the bit caught between his teeth and a harness keeping his mouth shut.

He’s away from his mate.

And his mate is in distress.

And the silence stretching out over him is too much—

“Doctor Lecter?”

His pacing falters. He reels around, looking to one of the many doors that stand between him and Will’s side. A nurse steps through the door, a hand clasped tightly around the handle, ready to pull it shut if the alpha inside the room lashes out. A security team is probably waiting outside in the hall, ready to intervene again if needs be.

That logical, sane part of him rears its head. Settle.

The nurse squares her shoulders. A brave woman, facing down a distressed Alpha separated from his labouring mate. Then again, she probably can’t smell the scents souring the air inside the room.

“Your husband is ready to see you,” she says, a small smile ghosting her lips. She takes a step inside. Brave woman, not only facing down an enraged Alpha, but a hunter. A maelstrom of thought swirls around; plans to hunt those who kept him from Will, other assurances that what he’s feeling is just hormones, and that Will is fine because of those said people—

The nurse lifts her hands, gesturing to the muzzle holding his jaw shut. “I can take it off of you now,” she explains, “just as long as you agree that your walk from here to your husband’s room is a peaceful one.”

There’s definitely a team waiting outside in the hall. Hannibal’s ears twitch at the sound of people shuffling around outside. Their footfalls are too heavy to belong to scrub-clad nurses and doctors.

Maroon eyes regard the nurse for a moment – a colour made all the more deeper by the swirling emotions and hormones flooding him. It started the very moment when he surfaced, his nose wrinkling at a change in scent. He’s known Will long enough to know what he smells like, no matter what state he’s in. The usual scent changed; it soured and twinged with something that had sleep washing off of him as he nudged his mate awake.

It was time.

Hannibal’s jaw flexes. He eventually nods.

The nurse is slow with her movements, not unlike approaching a wild animal. And maybe, at one point during their evolution, that might have been the case. No matter how many generations pass through the aeons, something primal will always remain. And he’s gone much of his life ignoring it, pushing it to the side because it was a great inconvenience.

Then Will broke down those walls and let his feral nature loose, engulfing the both of them.

A low growl clambers up his throat when the nurse slips behind him. His hands clench into fists by his side at her fingers deftly unlatching the buckle. At the slightest hint of give from the muzzle, Hannibal reaches up. The nurse backs off as he wrenches the godforsaken thing off, clamping down on the urge to fling it across the room and charge for his mate.

He shifts his jaw, letting the ache slowly work its way out. The harness sits heavily in his hand. The rubber bit is imprinted with teeth marks, impressions left behind from just wanting to gnaw at something to take the edge off. Every primal, deep-set part of him screamed to claw and bite and roar. Maybe all those aeons ago, held up in a cave somewhere, when it would have been just the two of them, he could have fought off wayward intruders.

But nowadays, he understands the measures taken by hospitals to keep their staff alive and in one piece. They had the same thing in John Hopkins. Sometimes the Alphas of families hearing unfortunate news turned feral.

He turns to the nurse, a small courteous smile ghosting his lips. “Thank you,” he rumbles. His voice will be changed, altered to be a pitch recognisable by their baby. And the thought of it has his blood beginning to curdle again. He wants to see them. And Will.

The nurse lifts her chin. “Come with me,” she says, already leading them out of the room.

He winces at the sharp, bright light out in the hall. The noise is almost too much; staff and visitors chattering among themselves, the distant cry of other labouring women and omegas. He catches the inside of his cheek between his teeth. Will.

They can’t weave through the halls quick enough. It’s a typical labour ward – painted dust pastels and with overtly friendly and calm-speaking midwives and nurses who drift between rooms. A few of them glance at the alpha being escorted by one of their own, and a small army of security guards trailing behind them. But no one looks surprised. Or even bothered. The speed in which guards flooded Will’s room and clamped his alpha’s jaw shut to stop him from lashing out only tells him that this is a regular occurrence.

At the sight of Will’s room door, his heart leaps to his throat. He has to stop himself from rushing past the nurse and bursting in himself.

The nurse stops just outside of the room, peering in the opened door and greeting who Hannibal can only presume to be a colleague. She gives a firm nod to whoever is inside before turning back to him. “Alright, you can go in.” The silent threat lingers. But behave, or we’ll take you away again.

The second he steps into the room, his hackles fall. A familiar scent twinged with sweetness coats the roof of his mouth and settles on his tongue. He takes a breath of it, letting it bloom through him like sunlight warming a room.

A gentle thrill calls for him. Hannibal’s eyes dart to the bed. Amid machines and monitors and IV stands is his mate, propped up against pillows, guarding a white bundle against his chest. Hannibal’s feet carry him over. He practically falls into Will’s side, a gentle rumble rattling out of his throat to mix with his mate’s own sounds. A nurse and midwife still remain in the room, strategically keeping themselves as far away from the mated pair and their new pup as they can. Eventually, they leave the room with muffled footfalls and the softest of clicks when the door shuts behind them.

A tired, worn-out smile tugs the corners of Will’s lips. “What was all of that about, doctor?” a light huff of a laugh slips out of him. A tiny whelp escapes the bundle in his arms; one snapping Will’s attention back, earning a small thrill out of his throat.

Hannibal hums, utterly lost of where to look. “I may have let instincts get the better of me. I apologise, darling.” His gaze eventually settles on the small, clenched fist that wiggles free of the bundle of blankets. One of Will’s hands, pinned with a cannula, gently pries the blanket away. A small, red face peers out. Still wincing at being hauled from a quiet, safe place into a world such as this; but Hannibal’s breath catches in his throat at how rounded their cheeks are, their pursed lips and squinting eyes. Even the faintest of sand-coloured wisps dusting the crown of their head.

He’s aware of Will’s eyes on him, blearily watching him for anything to slip through that impenetrable wall he shields himself with. But the omega knows all too well that he’s chipped enough of those bricks years ago to have that wall crumbling and cascading down. A new pup is the last blow, sending dust and debris to the wind. He swallows against the lump trying to lodge in his throat.

Will’s smile only grows when their pup reaches out and nabs one of his fingers. They’re so small, barely wrapping around his fingertip. “A girl,” he whispers, suddenly mindful of the quiet that has fallen over the room. Monitors whirl and beep occasionally, but it’s a world different to when they arrived. Pain wracking through Will’s body as labour moved on without him. Growls, snarls, shouts flung down the hall. It was chaos. Will brings the pup closer to his chest, letting her forehead rest against his bare skin.

Hannibal watches, perched by the side of Will’s bed. He looks beautiful; bleary-eyed with shadows clinging to the hollows of his face, sweat-coated curls sticking to his forehead. A show of strength and resilience to bring their child into this world, by himself. Hannibal’s stomach sours at the thought of not being there. The first cry to pierce through the room should have graced his ears too. He should have been there to soothe and gentle and encourage. Those who kept him away rattle through his mind. Faint glances at nametags and a general knowledge of how hospitals and their rotas work—

“Hannibal.”

The Alpha glances to his mate. Any ounce of tiredness that plagued his mate is gone. Or at least, pushed behind hardened blue eyes. Will lifts his chin, challenging. “Don’t blame yourself or others,” he says firmly, the words almost slurring together in a growl.

“Forgive me, my darling,” he dusts a kiss to Will’s temple. “I am only now coming out of the storm.”

Will hums, letting his head fall forward and rest against Hannibal’s. The air sweetens with plumes of Will’s scent drifting around. His usual smell is intoxicating. When he can, Hannibal sets his noise to the join of Will’s neck and shoulder, or to the hollow of his throat. Most nights, curled around each other and sweat beading along skin, Hannibal can’t sleep unless his lungs are full of his mate’s scent.

And it’s all the more sweeter now that a pup is here. She’s a tiny thing, swallowed completely in a swaddling blanket and gentled against Will’s chest. Tired, cut-off whines slip out from between her lips; calls matched by her mother cooing back, gentling, assuring her that she’s safe and they’re here for her.

There’s an unspoken agreement between the two of them. It wasn’t ideal, the pup’s birth. It had been challenging from the moment Will caught the change in his scent. Mornings spent curled around a toilet bowl, gagging at every dairy product under the sun. Swollen ankles and sore feet that found a permanent home on Hannibal’s lap, with the Alpha’s fingers dutifully coaxing out every tense and painful muscle.

But instincts are instincts, and this is their first pup. Their first. Whether any more appear, that will be up to Will. Hannibal didn’t think he could have any, being the age he is. And Will isn’t that free from concern either; a body littered with scars and worn out from illness. But here is a pup, healthy and squirming and scowling at the sheer noise of the world and trying to burrow her way into her mother’s chest to escape it all.

“I don’t want to see any of those nurses or midwives on our table,” Will rumbles, just teetering on the edge of slipping asleep, “do you understand?”

A small huff of a laugh escapes Hannibal. He makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Understood.”

The explanation sits between them. The people who brought him away are the same ones that brought their child into the world; the same people who made sure that Will weathered labour and birth and came out of it unscathed. And despite scenting the tang of blood in the air, his mate’s heart still thumps steadily in his chest, and his eyes are as quick as ever.

Something does linger on the tip of his tongue, peering out between his lips. A mother’s eye looks down at their pup, finally settling in for a short rest as she gets her bearings on the world.

Hannibal purrs. A gentle encouragement. They’re alone now and as soon as Will’s body is able, they’ll slip away with their pup and go back to hiding. But for now, it’s just the two of them. And thorned words and death wishes can be aired. The corner of Will’s lip twitches. “If you’re desperate for a hunt,” he murmurs, dusting his fingertip on the button of their daughter’s nose, “if you want to bring a feast to our table to welcome her into the world, there was a matron who came in to see what all the fuss was about.”

Hannibal’s purr vibrates through the air. While he can be cruel and violent in his own right, Will is even more so. And he suspects being a mother will only hone that urge to snarl and draw blood. The doctor hums. “Oh?”

Something wicked flashes in Will’s eyes. “Alphas have no place in a labour ward; especially ones that cannot control themselves.” He doesn’t distort his voice, knowing that the pup in his arms might just cry at his own normal soothe slipping away.

A low rumbling growl claws up Hannibal’s throat. He manages to catch it behind his teeth, but Will’s shoulders shake in a tired laugh. He nudges his nose against his Alpha’s. “I’ll be out of action for a while,” he lulls, “because your daughter saw fit to not enter this world without a fight.” Will’s lips part, a flash of fangs catches Hannibal’s eye. They’re close, but not close enough to catch Hannibal’s lip as he leans forward for a kiss. Will nudges him back, just so. A wounded sort of noise crawls up Hannibal’s throat. “Will you hunt for me, husband? For our daughter?”

He’ll line their table with whatever they need. Their home, wherever it may be, will be flooded with food and gold and warmth. A deep-set primal urge coils tightly in his stomach. One that sets his blood ablaze and has his throat rumbling. Will has a talent for igniting his blood, careful with plying with just the right words and glances.

The world outside their room, outside this hospital bed, all seems to slip away. Hannibal’s throat bobs. “I will give you everything and more, my love.” He glances down at their pup, nestled in Will's arms. Reaching out, he lets the pup nab and hold on to his finger. Warmth blooms through him. He swallows through a lump in his throat. "Both of you."

#hannigram #hannibal/will #hannibal x will #hannibal lecter #will graham #mads mikkelsen #hugh dancy #hannibal #hannibal nbc #nbc hannibal

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hansenfox6-blog · 6 years

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architectnews · 4 years

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British Museum Great Court London

British Museum Great Court London Building Photos, Foster + Partners Architects, Location

British Museum Great Court

7 Dec 2020

British Museum Great Court Building in London

The Great Court at the British Museum turns 20 Date built: 2000 Design: Foster + Partners

Photographs by Nigel Young / Foster + Partners

The British Museum’s Great Court turned twenty on Sunday 6 December 2020. As the departure point for Museum visitors, it has transformed the experience of the Museum. Since it opened, 113 million people have walked under its arched glass roof with its 3,312 triangular panes of glass. On social media, it is the most photographed space in the Museum.

The Great Court is a two-acre space at the heart of Robert Smirke’s Museum. Originally it was conceived as a garden for promenading and discussing but it only lasted for a few years before his brother Sydney constructed the famous Round Reading Room at its centre. As lean-to book storage buildings were added, the Court was lost to the public until 1997 when the Library moved to St Pancras. The opportunity was then realised with our master plan to open it up for the public once more.

Marking the 20th anniversary, Norman Foster, Founder and Executive Chairman, Foster + Partners, said: “The rediscovery of the amazing courtyard of the British Museum – the Great Court – and its rebirth as a new social focus followed what I have often called the historic tradition of change, which respects the past while steadfastly reflecting the spirit of its own time. The simple act of opening it up as the spatial heart of the museum was a catalyst in the Museum’s reinvigoration. The celebration of its 20th anniversary this year is a reflection of its success and we join in congratulating the British Museum for its foresight and vision.”

Spencer de Grey, Head of Design, Foster + Partners, said, “The opening of the Great Court symbolised the excitement about the future that characterised the new Millennium. As a public space, it gave the Museum a new, much needed focus with a new public route through the building and much needed education, cafes, social and community facilities. Every time I visit the Museum, I’m heartened to see the many diverse groups enjoying its naturally lit, sheltered public space with its restored magnificent neo-classical architecture, just as so many others have over the past twenty years.”

Foster + Partners won the competition to reimagine the museum in 1994. The Great Court is in a continuing tradition by the practice working with numerous historic structures such as the Royal Academy of Arts and HM Treasury in London, and the Reichstag in Berlin. Central to our approach is to breathe new life into these buildings as part of our strong sustainable agenda.

The Great Court was opened by HM The Queen on 6 December 2000. At the opening ceremony, she hailed it as “a landmark of the new Millennium” and said “In the life of the nation, the British Museum is a remarkable phenomenon. It is an institution which has had a worldwide reputation for nearly 250 years and it is an enduring source of learning, inspiration and pleasure for millions of people who visit every year from this country and from overseas.

She added: “The Great Court will benefit the millions of people who come to the British Museum every year. We can be confident that it will become a landmark associated with the new millennium.”

To celebrate 20 years of the Great Court, Foster + Partners’ photographer has revisited the Great Court to capture the space 20 years on.

Facts about the Great Court

1. In the original Robert Smirke design for the Museum, the central space within the quadrangle of buildings was supposed to be a garden and an open courtyard for promenading. However, from 1852 lots of bookstacks were built in the space, and along with the Round Reading Room it became the home of the library department.

2. The library which was homed in the courtyard was formally separated into a new body – the British Library – in 1972. It wasn’t until 1997 when it moved to a new home at St Pancras. The Library’s move facilitated the Great Court development.

3. It takes about two weeks to clean the whole roof. It gets cleaned every three months because being in the centre of London, it gets very dirty. Cleaners can’t walk unaided on the roof – instead they have to be hooked on by a harness to a network of cables that run over the roof, which can’t be seen from below.

4. The current design is not the first at the Museum to have proposed using a glass roof. In the early 1850s, Charles Barry, joint architect of the Palace of Westminster, proposed roofing over the courtyard with sheets of glass supported on 50 iron pillars. Inspired by the famous Crystal Palace of 1851, it was to have served as a Hall of Antiquities, but never came to fruition.

5. The roof is made up of 3,312 individual panels of glass, and no two panels are the same shape. They are held together by four miles of steel and there’s enough glass up there to glaze around 500 household greenhouses.

6. The roof stands 26.3 metres above the floor at its highest point – that’s nearly as tall as six of London’s famous double-decker buses.

7. At two acres, it’s the largest covered square in Europe.

8. The 315 tonnes of glass that make up the roof are supported by a 478-tonne steel structure – in total, that’s equivalent to seven-and-a-half blue whales

9. During construction of the new space, 20,000 m3 of demolition material was removed from inside the courtyard, equivalent to twice the volume of the Egyptian Sculpture Gallery or twelve Olympic swimming pools.

10. On completion, the redesign grew the Museum floor space by 40%. For the first time in more than 150 years, the new two-acre Great Court gave visitors the chance to move freely around the main floor of the Museum.

11. The Great Court can also get dark when the roof is covered in snow, so floodlights are fixed around the top of the Round Reading Room, illuminating the space.

12. The cafés in the Great Court serve over 1 million hot drinks each year.

13. Famous guests to the Great Court include HRH The Prince of Wales, Nelson Mandela, Sir David Attenborough, President George W Bush, Angelina Jolie and Katy Perry.

14. In 2004 Great Court hosted a special display of costumes from the Wolfgang Petersen epic film Troy. These included the armour worn by Brad Pitt as Achilles, one of Helen of Troy’s gowns – played by Diane Kruger, and costumes worn by Eric Bana as Hector, Peter O’Toole as Priam and Brian Cox as Agamemnon. The film went on to be nominated for an Academy Award for Best Costume Design.

15. When The Queen opened the Great Court in 2000, our Visitor Services staff had the chance to put on the Windsor Livery, which can be worn on special occasions. It was granted to the Museum by King William IV in 1835, and consists of a blue coat with a scarlet collar and cuffs.

16. Engraved into the floor is an extract from ‘The Two Voices’ by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. It says “and let thy feet, millenniums hence, be set in midst of knowledge”.

17. The £100 million project was supported by grants of £30 million from the Millennium Commission and £15.75 million from the Heritage Lottery Fund.

18. The after-party of the world premiere of the James Bond film Spectre was held in the Great Court, with a Day of the Dead theme. All the stars including Daniel Craig attended.

19. In 2008, the Olympic Torch passed through the Great Court as part of its world tour from Olympia in Greece to the Olympic Games in Beijing, China.

20. The space has been the home of numerous installations over the last 20 years, including the Tree of Life in 2005, built from decommissioned firearms from the Mozambican civil war, by artists Kester, Hilario Nhatugueja, Fiel dos Santos and Adelino Serafim Maté. Other installations have included a scale model of the ancient site of Olympia in 2004, a Volkswagen Beetle in 2014, Zak Ové’s Moko Jumbie figures in 2015, and Esther Mahlangu’s BMW Art Car 12 in 2016.

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British Museum Great Court information from Foster & Partners, 071220

Previously on e-architect:

British Museum Building

British Museum Great Court Dates built: 1994-2000 Design: Foster & Partners

British Museum Building

British Museum Dates built: 1823-47 Design: Sir Robert Smirke

Address: Great Russell St, London WC1B 3DG

photos © Adrian Welch

BM building – aerial view photos © Keepclicking

Detail of the Great Court roof: photos © Keepclicking

British Museum entry facade: photos © Adrian Welch

British Museum Great Court: photos © AW

British Museum Conservation + Exhibition Spaces Dates built: 2007-11 Design: Rogers Stirk Harbour & Partners

Location: Bloomsbury, north central London

aerial photo © the Trustees of the British Museum

British Museum Great Court

Design: Foster & Partners

British Museum Great Court + existing space to east: photos © Adrian Welch

North facade, at rear of the British Museum: photo © Nick Weall

Foster + Partners

Richard Rogers

British Museum Building Extension

British Museum Building Extension image © the Trustees of the British Museum

British Museum Building Extension

British Museum World Conservation & Exhibitions

British Museum architect : Robert Smirke

Location: British Museum, London, England, UK

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London Architectural Tours – tailored UK capital city walks by e-architect

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Comments / photos for the British Museum Development London Great Court design by Foster + Partners architects page welcome

Website: www.britishmuseum.org

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janeykath318 · 7 years

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Free To A Good Home 9 (END)

#my fics #mckirk #genderswap

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rebekah-raven · 5 years

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Going Home: A Hunger Games Fanfiction

I hadn’t been allowed to see her for nearly a week save the sound-less surveillance camera in her cell. It was painful to watch her losing the will to live, knowing I held the knowledge and words that would sooth her bleeding heart and begin to bring her back to us, but Plutarch was insistent. I hated having to stare at the television screen, watching her lay for hours without moving, blinking, eating, drinking. Sometimes, I wondered if the camera was even working, but it was. Effie was busy with her own devices, mainly ensuring Peeta was adjusting well to his long-term hospital situation, and was adamant I should be as well, but Katniss had always been more dear to me than any other tribute I’d had the misfortune to mentor, and watching her waste away was killing me. Peeta was high on my list of good tributes, but Katniss was different. She was brave and selfless and so full of love. I longed for the sound of her voice, her headstrong ways, the small weight of her in my arms when she lost her brave facade and broke down, turning to me, as she had come to find I wouldn’t turn her down. I knew I was hard on her, but I loved her more than I had loved anything in over a decade. I woke on the eighth morning of Katniss’s imprisonment to a hand on my shoulder and lurched to my feet, raising the knife I always slept holding. Plutarch stepped back, raising both hands in a sign of surrender until I slipped the blade into my pocket. I glanced over my shoulder at the girl on the screen I had fallen asleep watching and saw that she was still in the position she had been in for more than half the week. “You’re required for a meeting that starts in...” he checked his watch, “three minutes.” “That’s nice.” I sat back down, watching her sleep... but was she sleeping? She seemed to be in more of a stupor as her eyes flickered gently ever hour or so. “Haymitch, she’s supposed to be released later today. That’s what the meeting is for.” With a heavy sigh, I stood up, gathered my jacket, and followed Plutarch out of the room and down a narrow hallway to a meeting room with a circular table. Everyone was already in their seats, including Paylor, Panem’s new president. Effie was there too, along with a few people I either didn’t recognize or didn’t care to. Paylor got to her feet to start the meeting. “After the unfortunate death of Primrose Everdeen, Mrs. Everdeen has retired to District 4 to start a hospital. Our Mockingjay has been, to us, cleared of all charges, but to the public, she has been pardoned. She will be returned to District 12, but she is still sixteen. She is still a minor, and even past the age of eighteen, I believe she will need looking after. I need volunteers, someone who will ensure she is physically and emotionally well, that she moves towards the future without being restricted to the past. Even had her mother been available to care for her, I would still be asking this. Mrs. Everdeen seems to be a lovely woman, but not right enough to care for a child such as Katniss after everything they’ve both been through.” I got to my feet very quickly. “I’d get to take her home?” Paylor nodded once. “She wouldn’t be forced to take place in government advertising?” A strange look crossed the president’s face, but she nodded again nevertheless. “When do I get her?” ################################################################ The peacemaker flipped through a ring of keys in his hand before picking one and sticking it in the lock and pushing the door open. He steppe d to the side very quickly, knowing I would want to be the first one in the room. I hoped and prayed that my face was the first one she’d see: a sign that things would get better. Her eyes flickered open and it broke my heart to see the grey-green orbs void of any light. “Haymitch?” She voice was so soft, so vulnerable I wasn’t sure it had come from her, but from the tremble of her lips, I knew it had. “Hey, Sweetheart,” I murmured gently, wanting to pick her up and carry her out as quickly as possible, “It’s over, Katniss. You’ve been cleared, and now I’m taking you home.” Her tiny forehead wrinkled ever so slightly. “Home?” she asked. I nodded a confirmation. “Yes, Child. We’re going home.” The peacemakers came in with some doctors who inserted IV’s into her arm to give her nutrients and liquids and a little morphine too. I wanted to shout that she seemed so frail a single needle prick would meant the end, but I stayed quiet. I had remained completely sober throughout the entire eight days and I wanted to prove that leaving her in my care was not a mistake. Twenty minutes passed in complete silence as the medical crew worked ceaselessly on Katniss, bringing her body to life, but her eyes and heart still seemed dead. I knew it would take time to heal the emotional damage, but I wouldn’t give up on her. When the doctors finally stepped away from her, the girls skin looked brighter. No longer grey, but a glowing pale pink with a hint of blue. I looked around and shivered: it was cold down here. I approached her with a soft green blanket I had brought with me and carefully placed it over her, wrapping it completely around her as I lifted her into my arms and felt her head fall against my chest. I turned to leave. Plutarch lead the way to the elevator and pressed the underground floor where the entrance to the landing pad was located. We left the lift and made our way up a small flight of stairs as the hovercraft came into view. We boarded and Plutarch took the seat across from me. A peacemaker directed me to set Katniss in a seat he could harness her into, but I shook my head. Small as she was, she was my burden to bear. I felt the hovercraft take flight and relaxed, happy the capital was behind us. “Thus, we enter a time of peace, when we promise that we will never repeat what we have just overcome.” Plutarch’s voice was quiet, but there was a twinge to it. “Yet, we are fickle creatures who forget too easily.” I still said nothing, brushing my fingertips over her soft hair and smooth cheeks. She had fallen fast asleep and I was glad of it. “But then, this time, it may last.” Plutarch went on, “Maybe we have finally learnt our lesson.” When I remained quiet, he released as breath, watching his hands for a few minutes before glancing up at me. “Take care of her, Haymitch. She deserves it.” I looked up to meet his unsteady gaze. “Yes.” I replied evenly, “I am determined to bring the light back to her eyes, and she will smile again.” “Will you be happy, Haymitch?” I paused. It was the one question no one had bothered to ask before. “I will be content as long as she is safe, and when she is happy, I will be too.” Plutarch smiled a little as he looked to the window. “I’m glad you both have each other. You both have what you never thought you would. She has a guardian who understands her and only wants her to be safe and happy, and you have a...” He trails off and I realize what he had wanted to say, but had not been sure if I would agree. “A daughter.” I murmured quietly, “I have a daughter.” Plutarch let a small smile cross his face, and I hoped he knew they had made the right decision in fully entrusting their small Mockingjay to her mentor. I had every intention of caring for her and raising her during the final eighteen months of her childhood, and I promised myself that, whatever happened, she would know only love at my hands. The hovercraft touched down in District 12 and I looked down at Katniss. “Can you walk, Sweetheart?” She made something of a nod and I set her down, steadying her before standing up myself. Plutarch escorted us off the hovercraft, then turned to bid us farewell. He shook my hand, then turned to Katniss and placed a hand on her shoulder. "We've found our peace, Child, and I hope you can now find yours." She nodded and allowed him to embrace her before mounting the stairs back onto the hovercraft. It started to rise even as he stood on the top step, waved to us, and stepped inside. I watched the ramp close and the hovercraft turned around. I slipped an arm around my Mockingjay and lead her down the worn paths to the neat, nearly unused walks in Victors' Village. We passed my house and arrived at hers. Plutarch had been given the key by Mrs. Everdeen and had passed it on to me. I carefully unlocked the door and stepped inside first, holding the door so she could follow. She passed right by me and made her way to the fireplace mantel where there were picture frames lined up: photos of her father, photos of her mother, photos of a little girl with dark hair, young Katniss. There were photos of Peeta and Katniss and of her with Gale. At the very end, there were two photos Katniss picked up, then placed them face-down. She turned and made her way to a rocking chair by the window and sat down, rocking slowly and watching out the window. I moved to the couch, reached for an afghan, and carefully draped it over her. I kissed the top of her head. "I'm going to look around, make sure everything's safe and in order." She didn't reply, not that I was expecting anything. She had spoken as little as possible ever since Primrose's death, and I couldn't blame her. I made my way into the kitchen and pulled a chair into a corner to climb on. I carefully screwed a monitor into the wall and clicked a button to turn it on. I moved around the house, placing an identical monitor in her bedroom, living room, and study. They were sound-recording, and I could listen from my house one door over. I nearly felt guilty, but I needed to make sure she was alright. I returned to her rocking chair and knelt down in front of her, catching her eyes. "I can stay in the house with you, if you want." I said quietly. She shook her head, as I had expected her to, but the monitors were in place, so I could be there when the memories resurfaced and the nightmares visited, as I knew well they would. I pulled her into an embrace, kissed her forehead, and left, reminding her that I was right next door. I walked back to my house and opened the door to find empty bottles and dirty clothes everywhere, just as I had always left it... but not anymore. I would stop, for Katniss. I cleaned the place up: throwing the garbage away and tossing the clothes in the laundry. I opened the curtains and dusted the furniture until it looked like a normal house. I looked around and sat down on the couch, stretching out to go to sleep. I had a feeling I wouldn't be sleeping much that night. The last thing I heard as I dozed off was a sweet, untrained voice singing the refrain of an old lullaby: "Here it's safe, here it's warm Here the daisies guard you from every harm Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true Here is the place where I love you."

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architectnews · 4 years

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British Museum Building: Great Court London

British Museum in London, Robert Smirke Building, Great Court Picture, Architects, Location, Date

British Museum London Architecture

BM Building, Bloomsbury, England design by Robert Smirke architect, UK

7 Dec 2020

British Museum Building in London